


Touch

by CommonNonsense



Series: Overwatch Ficlets [11]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-01 08:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18332162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: Hanzo's never been one to want to be touched by anyone, but, as he often is, McCree is the exception to the rule.





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of ficlets from way back when on Tumblr, slightly reformatted for easier viewing. P:
> 
> Also! There's art! By the amazing BloomingCnidarians! http://bloomingcnidarians.tumblr.com/post/168339078393/some-scenes-from-the-first-part

Hanzo has never been the kind of person to seek out, or even particularly enjoy, touching or being touched. Even when he was young, though he was conditioned into seeking the approval of his family elders at all times, he had never particularly craved their physical affection. He roughhoused with Genji in the way siblings did and occasionally received a pat on the head from his father while he was still small enough for it and that was, for the most part, satisfactory. His family approved of him being distant and untouchable, and that suited him fine.

That mild aversion to touch followed him into adulthood. Other than the same romantic and sexual experimentation that nearly all teenagers go through, he has consistently been unbothered. (It doesn’t help that, nowadays, most of the people to get within touching distance are trying to murder him.)

He doesn’t think of himself as touch-starved in any manner—until he meets Jesse McCree.

 —

 

The thing with Overwatch is this: almost everyone knows each other, and therefore they are all comfortable in being close to each other.

Hanzo has never had the opportunity to work as part of a team. Any alliances he forged were entirely business, conducted with cold efficiency and ended as soon as they outlived their usefulness. He learns quickly that with Overwatch, that is not the case at all—every success or cause for celebration is met with a high-five, a slap on the shoulder, a friendly embrace.

They all learn just as quickly that he will not tolerate such behavior.

Genji reprimands him for rebuffing the team. Hanzo feels a twinge of guilt; he is, after all, a barely-tolerated guest at the Watchpoint. But becoming friendly with the team does not necessarily mean allowing them to hug him every other minute, so he dismisses it entirely.

 

–

 

There is one, though, he doesn’t mind so much, and that is McCree.

He works with McCree frequently in the first few months of his stay, and they become fast friends despite Hanzo’s initial determination to avoid all such things. He likes McCree’s casual company, and is surprisingly relieved to find a kindred spirit amongst the diverse team: another man still hunted by his demons and seeking to redeem himself, someone who knows that there is no truly escaping the past. Through McCree, Hanzo becomes slightly more open to the rest of the team, and even finds himself enjoying their company, over time.

And McCree is not an actively touchy person either, it seems—he accepts congratulatory pats on the back, hugs a friend when they initiate it, but doesn’t seem to seek it out. He doesn’t seem to care one way or another, but Hanzo nonetheless appreciates it. Their contact is limited to whatever brief touches are required of working together in the field and, occasionally, handing each other bottles of beer. It suits Hanzo just fine.

 

–

 

Until it becomes a problem.

Hanzo will admit—privately, to himself, when he is certain nobody else can somehow divine his thoughts and Genji is nowhere nearby—that he has always considered McCree handsome. It’s an annoying fact, but a manageable one. He has no intention to pursue anyone, has not even thought of attempting it in over ten years, and there is little joy for him in short flings.

The problem arises on a perfectly average afternoon. McCree is cleaning his gun, and Hanzo has decided to perform some maintenance on his bow. They work angled across from each other at the same table in comfortable silence. McCree says, without looking up, “Hand me that bottle there?” and holds out his hand.

Hanzo glances over. There is a small, half-empty bottle of cleaning fluid somehow closer to him than McCree. Hanzo presses it into McCree’s palm without thinking much of it.

McCree, still not looking, absently closes his hand around Hanzo’s instead of the bottle.

The first thing Hanzo notices is that McCree is warm, surprisingly so. There is a strength to his grip, too, and rough calluses on his palm and fingers, rougher than one might expect from watching him do the delicate work on his gun.

It lasts a fraction of a second at most. Hanzo quietly extracts his hand. McCree glances up, says, “Whoops,” and returns to what he was doing.

Hanzo tries to do the same, but his hand feels clumsy on his bow now, as though he can still feel the press of McCree’s fingers around his own. He aches, suddenly and in a way he has never experienced, to reach over and grab McCree’s hand again, to find some reason for them to touch again.

It is at that moment he recognizes the problem.

 

–

 

It is a matter of self-control, he decides. He may have feelings for McCree, and he may have random urges to touch, but that does not mean he will give in to them. He will not allow foolish impulses and wants to dictate his behavior and jeopardize his place in Overwatch and his friendship with McCree.

Unfortunately, that means nothing to his stupid heart.

Over the next weeks, Hanzo notices every bit of contact he and McCree make. Almost none of it is intentional, resulting instead from simple proximity and working together. But that doesn’t seem to matter. All it takes is a brush of their fingertips or an accidental bump of their shoulders for Hanzo to lose his focus.

Tiny touches when they pass objects to each other. A pat on the shoulder, a couple of times. McCree grasping his arm when he trips. Nothing is too little; he remembers the touches for hours afterward, phantom warmth still on his skin.

They have a mission, once, where they are discovered by Talon soldiers and forced to hide together, crammed into a tiny broom closet side-by-side. By the time they are free, twenty minutes later, Hanzo wishes he were dead just so he could forget that heady closeness, the warmth of McCree’s body and the softness of his serape and the cloying scent of his cigarillos.

Another time, he simply lies, claiming he can’t bandage a couple of superficial wounds on his arm after he took a tumble and bruised his shoulder. He could do it, and has taken care of himself after worse, but he doesn’t even have to finish making his excuses before McCree’s hands are on him with bandages and antiseptic, his touch gentle and tender and sure.

He hates himself for becoming such a touch-starved creature, mooning over someone he can’t have. He hates McCree for doing this to him.

 

–

 

“You realize he thinks you are just being friendly,” Genji says.

Hanzo grits his teeth, staring out at the sea instead of acknowledging that Genji spoke.

“Or, at least, I think he thinks that. He’s very good at reading people, so I suppose I could be wrong. But not everyone knows what your version of throwing yourself at someone looks like.”

“I am not _throwing myself_ at anyone.”

“Well, perhaps not in the traditional sense. But you let him much closer than you do anyone else. It’s rather obvious to me.”

Hanzo does not answer. Genji is silent for a long moment. The gentle whistle of the sea breeze fills the silence.

“You deserve to be happy, brother,” Genji says softly.

“That is not the issue.”

“Is it not?”

This time, Hanzo simply can’t find an answer at all.

 

–

 

It only gets worse.

Hanzo’s imagination starts to run wild. Casual touches aren’t enough. He lies in bed at night alone and thinks of what it might be like to have McCree beside him, McCree’s arms around him, McCree’s hands on his body and his mouth on his. He fantasizes so much that he can imagine the scrape of McCree’s beard on his skin, the chap of his lips, the weight of his body draped over his own. Something clenches in his gut every time he allows himself one of these fantasies, a heat and an ache, painful and pleasant in equal measure.

He wants everything. He can have _nothing_.

He will never have McCree. He reminds himself of this every day, more than once. It doesn’t help.

 

–

 

Finally, Hanzo snaps. Angry and ashamed of himself, he endeavors to avoid McCree entirely. Outside of mission-related meetings, he does not speak to McCree. He certainly does not manufacture excuses for them to be close. He must get himself under control, and if isolation is the way to do it, so be it.

McCree catches on in six days.

He corners Hanzo after a mission debriefing, relentlessly following him through the Watchpoint until he stops. “What’s been going on?” McCree asks. “You’ve been avoiding me for days.”

“I’ve been doing no such thing.”

“Bullshit. You practically run screaming out of the room every time you see me.” McCree softens, agitation bleeding into hurt. “I don’t get it. Did I do something?”

“It is nothing.”

“Hanzo, I ain’t stupid.”

“Are you certain? You seem incapable of leaving something be when I tell you to.”

McCree clenches his jaw. He looks off to the side somewhere, seeming to deliberate on his next words. Then he says, “Genji told me.”

Hanzo’s stomach drops, but he forces himself to maintain a neutral face. “Told you what?”

“What this is. Why you’re avoiding me.”

“I cannot imagine what he could have told you that is different from what I—”

The words die in Hanzo’s throat as McCree leans in close. Too close. Hanzo can smell the scent of cigarillo smoke clinging to McCree’s clothing. His breath leaves him all at once.

McCree meets Hanzo’s gaze. “It ain’t his fault,” he says. “I bugged him about it because I knew he’d know. Gave me a real roundabout answer, honestly, but I figured it out from there. I wanted to see if you’d tell me yourself, but you just. Kept avoidin’ me. And this is why, isn’t it?” His right hand finds Hanzo’s wrist, callused fingertips settling lightly over Hanzo’s racing pulse.

Hanzo swallows hard. “You are mistaken.”

“Am I? Because I really hope I’m not, for both our sakes.”

Hanzo can’t breathe. He fears if he moves at all, his self-control will break.

“Hanzo,” McCree says, “If I’m wrong, you gotta tell me. ‘Cause if you don’t …”

There is nearly no space between them now. McCree dips his head just slightly, gaze dropping to Hanzo’s mouth, wordlessly signaling his intent. Hanzo feels faint with a mix of anticipation and terror. He doesn’t know which will win.

He sucks in a breath. “You are not wrong,” he whispers, and McCree’s mouth meets his.

If he had thought he wanted this before, it is nothing to now, as he realizes just how much he needs it and how completely, utterly wrong his imagination was. Fantasies can’t replicate the softness of McCree’s lips, or the weight of his hands settling at Hanzo’s hips, or the tickle of his hair falling forward and brushing against Hanzo’s face. The last lingering thread of Hanzo’s restraint breaks under McCree’s touch; he throws his arms around McCree’s neck, pulls them together from chest to knee, and takes every last bit of contact that he can get.

And McCree gives it all to him without a hint of hesitation.   


 

* * *

 

The first couple of weeks are an adjustment in a lot of ways.

Hanzo’s not accustomed to something as seemingly mundane as a relationship. To say that he is stifled would be exaggerating, as McCree is anything but. However, he is not accustomed to having someone around who touches him every time they meet, kisses him when the time allows for it, hovers beside him as much as decency will allow.

Hanzo loves it. He hates that he does, that he is so dependent now on McCree’s touch, but he does nonetheless.

 

–

Still, though, Hanzo is left wanting much of the time. Not through any fault of McCree’s, for McCree is nothing short of attentive, but through his own.

With the change in their relationship, McCree is free in giving physical affection—rubbing his hand down Hanzo’s back when they sit for dinner, stealing kisses whenever they have a moment of privacy (and often when they don’t), taking Hanzo’s hand more often that not just for the sake of it. But that is the problem—it is only ever he who initiates contact, and Hanzo, for whatever reason, cannot bring himself to do the same. He thinks of it often, but when he goes to do so, he is stopped by some unknown fear.

What if McCree rejects him? Or he oversteps a boundary he does not know is there? When is it appropriate? Those questions never have certain answers.

The anxiety is nonsense, but it’s enough. So he waits and takes what he can get from McCree instead.

 

–

 

McCree is assigned to run errands in Gibraltar, and drags Hanzo along for company. He grabs Hanzo’s hand and doesn’t let go for most of the afternoon unless necessary. “So no one gets any ideas,” he says, although Hanzo thinks McCree just wants to show him off in public. Not that he minds.

Hanzo thinks of making one tiny move, to thread their fingers together instead of just clasping tight.

He doesn’t.

 

–

 

McCree likes to embrace him from behind at times, when they’ve gone the day without seeing each other and McCree happens to catch him unaware. Hanzo very nearly breaks McCree’s nose the first time it happens. The second is better—he tenses at first, but quickly recognizes McCree and allows the embrace.

The third comes on a bad night. When McCree comes to him this time, Hanzo digs his fingers into McCree’s arms around his middle, silently requesting that he stay. There is nothing that cures the nightmares or the panic or the self-hatred, but this helps. McCree is tall enough that he seems to surround Hanzo, not enough to suffocate but enough to blot out the rest of the world, to push out some of Hanzo’s thoughts and fill the void with only his warmth and strength.

Pathetic, perhaps. But Hanzo clings to it nonetheless.

McCree, if he senses Hanzo’s thoughts at all, says nothing, He only gently kisses the back of his neck, and Hanzo thinks he could weep.

 

–

 

The first night they fall into bed together is a lot of things. Overwhelming. Awkward. Perfection. Hanzo is far from a blushing virgin, but it’s still been well over 10 years since he’s bedded anyone and it certainly wasn’t anyone he cared for the way he does McCree.

But from the moment they begin he is awash in sensation: miles of skin-to-skin contact, McCree’s hands firm and warm and steady on his body, McCree’s lips teasing and sweet on his skin. And McCree is responsive under his touch, too, his tan skin flushed and hot, body arching into Hanzo’s with every movement, his fingertips digging into Hanzo’s back.

Even after they finally collapse beside each other on the bed, breathless and sated, it is only moments before McCree rolls back to face him. He grins crookedly at Hanzo and draws him into another kiss, astoundingly chaste for what they just did but no less enjoyable.

Hanzo thinks his heart might burst just from the sheer love of it all.

 

–

 

There are times when the urge to touch is bearable, when Hanzo is distracted even with McCree beside him and he does not think of it.

More often than not, it is impossible to stand. He had gone months without being allowed any of this, and now that he has it all, he finds he still cannot get his fill. He hates always wanting to be close, to touch, to remind himself that McCree is his in such a basic way, and he cannot imagine McCree being willing to tolerate it.

 

–

 

“You don’t have to ask, you know,” McCree says.

“Ask what?”

“If you want something. You look like you’re about to break over there.”

 _That is your fault_ , Hanzo thinks sourly, although it is not McCree’s fault at all. They had sat down on the couch in the rec room to watch … something, Hanzo’s actually forgotten what, because five minutes in, McCree had stretched his arm across the back of the couch, inches away from the back of Hanzo’s head. It was such a normal motion that Hanzo hasn’t been able to decipher it. Was it an invitation to move closer, or just a thoughtless stretch?

McCree lifts his hand just slightly, brushing his fingertips against the back of Hanzo’s neck as he waits for an answer.

Hanzo stiffly slides over and leans against McCree’s shoulder. McCree chuckles softly, wraps his arm about Hanzo’s shoulders, and says, “There you go. I won’t bite ya, I promise.”

An embarrassed retort sits on Hanzo’s tongue. He traps it behind his teeth.

McCree is surprisingly warm, and his flannel shirt is so old and worn that it is satin-soft to the touch. Though flustered, Hanzo quickly finds himself relaxing, tension seeping from his bones until he feels more lax than he can remember being in years. It feels strange to be here, yet as comfortable as anything he has ever known.

He dares to shift a little so he can rest his head on McCree’s chest and drape an arm about his middle. McCree simply smiles.

 

–

 

Hanzo wakes one night, shortly after midnight, to a knock at his door. When he answers it, he is surprised to see McCree on the other side, dressed for sleep and clearly having woken only a few minutes before. The mussed hair, the slouched shoulders, and the deep lines of distress etched into McCree’s features all point to a nightmare.

“Hey,” McCree says. His voice is rough with exhaustion. “Sorry to wake you up. Can I—”

He cuts off with an embarrassed grimace and tries again. “Can I stay here tonight?”

Hanzo wordlessly stands aside to let McCree in. They go back to bed together, and McCree immediately lays half across Hanzo’s chest before Hanzo can even think of getting comfortable. He unabashedly presses his face into the crook of Hanzo’s neck, wraps his arms tightly around Hanzo’s back, and settles in with a contented sigh. The tension melts from his muscles instantly.

Hanzo, slightly startled, rests his hands on McCree’s back but dares not to move any more.

“Sorry,” McCree says again, though he does not sound it. “Just—really needed this right now.”

Hanzo says nothing, quietly marveling at the ease with which McCree came to him: wordlessly requesting and taking the touch that he needed, unafraid Hanzo would reject him. Is it so simple after all?

He carefully, tentatively, strokes the tips of his fingers through McCree’s hair. He feels McCree smile, just a little, against his neck.

 

–

 

After that, it is an unspoken agreement that they share a bed every night. Hanzo’s, usually, following in the footsteps of that first night. It takes shamefully little time for him to come to rely on the presence of another body beside him and the constant promise of an affectionate touch.

 

–

 

Hanzo experiments a little in the following days, with great difficulty but greater determination. He takes McCree’s hand when they sit to do work, grazes fingertips along whatever exposed skin he can reach in passing, drops kisses on McCree’s face when he can reach, spoons against McCree’s back when they go to bed. Each time, his chest seizes with anxiety, and he fears he will finally be told off for his neediness.

But McCree reacts the same way every time: with a hint of surprise and a soft, appreciative smile.

 

–

 

“Hey, sweetness,” McCree says as he passes the table where Hanzo sits. He bends down to brush a quick kiss to the corner of Hanzo’s mouth.

With a smirk, Hanzo catches McCree by the front of his serape before he can continue, pulling him back for another, more proper kiss. He feels as much as he hears McCree hum against his lips.

McCree smiles a little lopsidely as they break apart. “Well, alright then,” he says, visibly pleased. Hanzo chuckles and pushes him along, back on the path to his original destination.

“I am right here,” says Genji flatly from the other side of the table.

Hanzo smiles and sips his tea.

 


End file.
